46.2 billion dollars. Champagne. Caviar. Four brothers. Divine crimson. Jewels of all kind. One Game.

Muffled classical Cuban music played in the background of the 'small' get together of the most elite class of the population, as your Valentino heels clicked against the marble floor without pattern. As sort-of host of the party, you should be out in the ballroom, shaking hands and kissing babies or something. But you had more important things to do... like solving a puzzle. Cracking the riddle. Winning the Game. Thank god for Alisa. She knows how to handle these things better anyway.

You focused on the painting on the wall in one of the many Hawthorne showrooms. "The Swing", by Jean-Honore Fragonard has more to it than meets the eye. All of the leads brought you back here. Usually, the Games didn't interest you to the point of not being able to sleep, but this round was different. This round was about you... or more specifically, your apparently not-dead mother, that Tobias Hawthorne had found and left clues for you before he died. And they all led you to "The Swing".

"Baroque. Brilliant colors." Grayson's smooth, calculated voice snapped you back to reality. He was standing next to you, his silver eyes laser focused on the painting, hands in the pockets of his matte gray suit pants.

Grayson Hawthorne. Sandalwood and amber musk. Silver eyes. Golden skin. Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. Blonde Hair. One Hawthorne. One Game. One danger.